


La Fée Dorée

by Veul_McLannon



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: (the V/D is established), Established Relationship, Humour, M/M, and the main focus as usual, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 02:45:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16053797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veul_McLannon/pseuds/Veul_McLannon
Summary: Moist von Lipwig has been left all alone at the Palace’s Hogswatch Ball. Fortunately for him there is a decidedly delicious slice of clerk wandering around. Unfortunately for him, the clerk is Drumknott. This displeases certain tall, dark individuals.





	La Fée Dorée

**Author's Note:**

> Set post(ish)-Going Postal but pre-Making Money. This is very early on in the Moist/Adora relationship; they’re either poly or not properly an item yet, I leave it up to you, dear reader. Also I decided to make Drumknott more of a little bitch than I usually do; I think I prefer my usual version, but I didn’t want him to be totally helpless and generally a fluffy little darling, which is what would have happened otherwise. Moist is exactly as much of a wet blanket as I like him to be, however. I own nothing, as per, you know the drill.

The annual Hogswatch Ball was a nightmare wrapped up in a pleasingly golden parcel – and that included the people. This Drumknott thought to himself as he avoided the increasingly amorous advances of one Moist von Lipwig, who had been abandoned by Adora Belle and found himself (as always, the clerk remarked to himself) desirous of making mischief.

“Mr Lipwig. You. Are. Drunk,” Drumknott enunciated clearly to the man all but hanging off his shoulder and fluttering beguiling eyelashes at him. And they fluttered very nicely, if he was honest, but Drumknott was well off the market – and thus looked down at Ankh-Morpork’s golden boy with the kind of expression one would bestow upon a small, possibly Labrador-like, puppy who, while utterly adorable in every respect, had just trekked mud onto the new cream carpets. He fastidiously removed the arm around his shoulder, huffing lightly.

Moist _whined_. Drumknott very nearly managed to refrain from rolling his eyes. For gods’ sake, the man was worse than useless without that spiky almost-heiress of his to keep him in line. Actually...

“And where is your charming young lady this evening, Mr Lipwig?” Drumknott sent up a quiet prayer for such an egregious stretching of the truth: only the truly suicidal would describe Miss Dearheart as “charming”. Certainly within earshot – which she, happily (or perhaps not so happily, given that it had caused this state of affairs and landed him in his current predicament), was not.

This rejoinder did not have the desired effect. Moist all but wailed and reaffixed himself to Drumknott’s neck with alacrity. Drumknott longed for someone at whom to roll his eyes, but the other guests had callously abandoned him to his fate and Vetinari was, as usual, nowhere to be seen.

“She’s _left_ me, Rufus! She’s had enough! She said to...” he thought almost comically hard for a second, then continued with the verbal precision which existed only in the very drunk or the very Drumknott, “... to Go And Bother Someone Else For Once.” He brightened suddenly with the mercurial nature of the beyond-inebriated. “And I like you, Rufus! You’re nice.”

Oh, so they were on first name terms now. Delightful.

This, however, was the least of Drumknott’s concerns. He may be many things, but “nice” was almost certainly not one of them. You couldn’t be “nice” and be this ambitious, it simply wasn’t done. You _certainly_ couldn’t be “nice” after working with Havelock Vetinari for any length of time; any niceness which may once have existed had most certainly been transformed into dry humour and bland innocence, with perhaps a dash of sadism if one were feeling adventurous. Indeed, he was already relishing the thought of Moist von Lipwig’s Tomorrow Morning with all the glee and restrained malice of the petty functionary.

With this cheering thought in mind, he changed tack, grinning disarmingly (or perhaps smiling nastily, depending on your angle) and pressing another drink into the unresisting hand around his neck, before leading the golden figure to one of the various plush surfaces dotted about for the canoodling and the drunk (Drumknott placed them both firmly in the latter category for safety’s sake, despite being himself as sober as a potted crab), and set him there unceremoniously. Given enough alcohol, he would eventually pass out – and _that_ was no longer Drumknott’s problem.

In the interim, however, he was very much Drumknott’s problem.

This was not least because Drumknott had functioning eyes, not to mention functioning ears, and the idiotic nothings which the insufferable, and really rather pretty, man was murmuring into his neck were unfortunately getting through to the processing bit of his brain, which was doing its duty and informing Drumknott that he should really, no _really_ , just kiss the man.

That he was for the duration Drumknott’s burden to bear was also made evident due to the fact that, when he spied the Patrician across the room and glared daggers at him until Vetinari noticed the prickling feeling on the back of his neck, he took one look at the situation and abruptly turned his face away. And as Drumknott enhanced his glare tenfold, he then had _the utter audacity_ to turn the rest of himself away as well, leaving Drumknott to his ill-deserved fate. He honestly wondered what he saw in the man sometimes; he played with people’s thoughts and emotions like a sinister, sarcastic snake of a puppeteer.

He occupied himself with considering unflattering alliterative adjectives with which to describe Havelock bloody Vetinari for a good ten minutes. Unfortunately Lipwig hadn’t budged an inch. He grabbed another glass of suitably potent liquid from a passing waiter and prepared to wait out the evening.

***

Moist von Lipwig awoke nose-to-handle with the fateful door in the Oblong Office, leading (presumably, one never knew with Vetinari) to rather an excess of nothing. He yelped and vaulted with considerable agility over the chair (to which he was happily not tied), backing into the centre of the room – and thus, the functioning part of his brain reminded him, closer to the lion’s jaws. He turned around quickly like a trapped rabbit, and manfully did _not_ quaver. Not even a little.

Standing severely framed against the tall window were the silhouettes of the Patrician and the ever-present Drumknott – and probably, the small, helpful part of his brain reminded him, the rest of them as well. The night before chose this moment to pelt him around the ears with all the delicacy of a hammer, or perhaps Mr Pump when his, Moist’s, own safety was concerned.

Oh gods. He was going to die here, wasn’t he?* His overactive imagination had vaulted several steps ahead, and conjured up a variety of mishaps which might befall someone fool enough to try it on with the Patrician’s secretary. That was practically treason, wasn’t it? Not in the interests of the city? Certainly it could be considered attempted bribery, couldn’t it? He groaned and staggered in the empty space, clutching his head with the effort of possibly-rational thought and searching vainly for some item of furniture to which he could moor himself.

There was movement by the window. He sensed it rather than saw it; in his current state looking at something so bright was practically a death sentence. He moaned again, and found a chair suddenly underneath him and a glass of water in his hand. At least he thought it was water. He regarded the glass balefully, as though it might of its own volition spring up and throttle him, weighing up the possibility of instant death against the certainty of a throbbing headache.

“We’re not monsters, you know, Mr Lipwig,” came the voice from the window, lacerating the tentative thoughts creeping around Moist’s brain. “Water. Drink.” He had never been happier to obey. Well all right, _almost_ never happier. Hanging produced a distinct fondness for the old _aqua vitae_ , it transpired. Emphasis on the _vitae_.

He surfaced about ten seconds later, eyes searching in vain for a refill. He was forced instead to return them to the silhouetted figures, and await his fate. He really needed a painkiller. Of the ah, non-permanent variety, his functioning brain cells pointed out. One had to be careful with such requests around the Patrician. He still hadn’t forgotten the Broom Incident.

“What are you going to do with me?” he asked, manfully restraining a querulous note from entering his voice.

At least, that was what he _wanted_ to say. What he _said_ was, “Grphgl?”

The Patrician, happily, was fluent in such language, and thus responded: “Do, Mr Lipwig? Why, nothing, of course. You are a valuable member of society now. No, you are here simply to be reminded of a few key points to which you agreed when you accepted the post of Ankh-Morpork Postmaster.” Vetinari stalked over to his desk and flicked through some papers contemplatively, shadowed as always by Drumknott, who installed himself behind the high wooden chair.

“Ah, yes,” he continued in the same bland tone of voice which was like nails down the blackboard of Moist’s soul, “Here it is: _I do hereby agree to refrain from all attempts to acquire with no appropriate remuneration that which, under the common law of Ankh-Morpork, and in the perception of the de facto holder, is no possession of my own, nor likely to become at any point in the future a possession of my own, especially regarding valuable objects (a non-exhaustive list of which may be obtained on application to the Patrician) unless ordered to do otherwise by duly constituted authority._ Yes, Mr Lipwig?”

Moist knew his mouth was hanging open, but he had only been able to process up to “refrain”, and he was still trying to play catch-up. Vetinari sighed minutely and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“When will you learn, Mr Lipwig, not to touch that which is not yours? We thought you had grown past these impulses, become a better man – or at least a different one, which amounts to much the same thing. You must try harder, Mr Lipwig. I enjoin you to heed my words most carefully, and consider them in all future instances in which they may be required.” He looked down at his desk again, and set the papers before him to one side, before collecting another ream.

“You may go, Mr Lipwig.”

“Mrghph?” Moist replied eloquently, at a pitch some three octaves higher than his speaking voice.

Drumknott, however, supported this statement by somehow materialising by the door and opening it for him, pointedly not making eye contact. So much for a close working relationship. Moist staggered blearily to his feet, barely daring to trust his eyes and ears, glancing back at the figure of Vetinari in case he changed his mind, and managed to stumble out the door.

He made it to the waiting room before he collapsed onto the nearest chair, and was found some three hours later by a politely aghast Lord Downey. He certainly wouldn’t live that down in a hurry.

 

* One trait which Moist never lost throughout his reformation was a penchant for the dramatic.

***

“It’s so... utterly incredible to me,” Vetinari commented, still gazing pensively at the door through which Moist had staggered in something of a daze.

After a second or two, when he remained unforthcoming as to what exactly, was incredible (where Moist von Lipwig was concerned, one never knew), Drumknott asked in a voice like satin, “What is, my lord?”

Vetinari looked up suddenly in mild surprise and amended the statement, faint confusion creasing his brow. “How utterly adorable you are in our day to day life.”

Drumknott, while pleased as the proverbial alcoholic beverage at the compliment,** sensed with his usual unerring instincts that something had been left unsaid and prompted, “And... outside of day to day life?”

His vision, and indeed the immediate space around him, was suddenly full of rather more Vetinari than there had formerly been, as he stood in one lithe movement and _loomed_ like a vengeful god (but oh, one whom he would worship gladly until he died), leaning down towards him to all but growl in his ear, “You are... _exceedingly_ inflammatory. Watching you _playing_ with your prey... it’s very... _entertaining._ ”

Drumknott moaned quietly, clasping at the front of the robe before him as Vetinari followed through on the implications of his previous statement, falling on his lips as, funnily enough, a hanged man might upon water. He found himself backed up against the fireplace (cold, as usual) in no short order, and moaned again into the non-existent space between their lips, trying in vain to somehow get them closer than they already were.

Gods, if he’d known that demonstrating evidence of a spine would have _this_ much effect, he’d do it more often. Although he didn’t want to spoil the novelty, he considered as Vetinari began laying none too gentle kisses along his jawline and further down his neck. His head fell back against the stone carving and he bit his lip hard to try and stay silent – but Vetinari had seen, and considered it an affront that he himself was not doing the biting, and was now making short work, through judicious application of lips and teeth to his person, of every single one of Drumknott’s perfectly constructed restraints.

If he died now, he would die happy. Mostly. In truth, he’d be a bit peeved he hadn’t elicited this reaction more often.

All right then. A couple of times a year, maybe. At most. He could very easily get used to this.

 

**And why _was_ punch pleased? It was going to end up in a sewer before the night was out. And Ankh-Morpork sewers could take away any gold medal going for Least Pleasing.

***

It was only after Moist von Lipwig awoke plastered to his own desk in the Post Office later that evening (having optimistically sat down at it upon his bleary return, before promptly passing out again), and staggered to his feet to ring for a strong, _strong_ cup of coffee, that his brain finally deigned to pass on certain information which had been preserved until he was considered capable of processing it.

 _“That which is not... yours...”_ He blanched and found himself clinging to the nearest wall for support. He thought he might actually be ill. With the amount of residual alcohol and adrenaline running through his system it was a tripled likelihood.

He had _propositioned_ not only the Patrician’s secretary, but the Patrician’s... oh gods... “lover” sat so uncomfortably on the mental tongue, especially when applied to Vetinari, so he amended it to “partner”. It didn’t make the realisation any better. He shoved a fist in his mouth and tried not to cry.

It was all right! He was safe! He was in his nice cosy office, and the Door was in the past! He breathed in shakily, then gave in and lost his battle with his tear ducts, sliding down the wall and collapsing into minor hysterics.

Only one angel?! He was lucky indeed to be alive.

***

“Was that unnecessarily cruel, do you think?” Vetinari asked the air later on that evening, leaning back in his chair and gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling.

“Certainly not, sir,” Drumknott might almost have smirked, if he had been a person known for such actions. “Such consequences build fortitude, and after all, as a respected pillar of the community our Mr Lipwig must be button-bright and alert at all times.” He shuffled some papers primly.

“I am inclined to agree with you. He ought to learn that he can’t have everything he wants. He isn’t Patrician _yet_ , after all.”

There was brief, smug, silence, before Drumknott became aware of a presence behind him. He set down his pen and leaned back, smiling lazily at the upside-down face of Vetinari.

“No, Havelock,” came the belated rejoinder, “I believe _you_ are the Patrician.” The smile, somehow without moving an inch, went from sweet to salacious in a heartbeat. “And what do _you_ want?”

His eyelashes fluttered a little at the response murmured into his ear. Happy Hogswatch indeed.

Some chocolates for Mr Moist von Lipwig were most definitely in order.

**Author's Note:**

> It wasn’t part of the original plan, but the exchange between Vetinari and Drumknott in the third section is heavily based on this post: [gothicmarquise.tumblr.com/image/103108788295] because clearly Vetinari finds extreme competence attractive, and if we just keep on down that route we reach Extreme Competence to the Point of Sassiness and, well.  
> Thank you for reading! <3 Comments as always are my lifeblood xxx


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